


Gunplay is Not Really Our Kink

by theroguesgambit



Series: gunplay [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Possible Character Death, Prompt Fill, Russian Roulette, Trauma Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The rules to the game are simple. One bullet, six chances. You pick it up and take turns pulling the trigger on the other man, or we gun you both down right now. You play along, only one of you has to die. Fun game, huh?”<br/>--<br/>Derek and Stiles are captured by a group of hunters and forced to play a twisted game that only one of them might walk away from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: STEREK Russian Roulette AU - Stiles & Derek are terrified for each other's life .. Such a cruel game .. <3<3 
> 
> Title thanks to mokulule.
> 
> AND [fanart](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com/post/104090224045/the-gun-feels-so-wrong-in-dereks-hand-and-he) based on this fic <3<3

They’re staring at each other across the narrow table, the silver gun still spinning sickly between them. The hunter had placed it there with a laugh and a twist of his wrist, a dark parody of spin the bottle. It’s an old-fashioned, single-action revolver, probably chosen more for dramatic effect than necessity if the rest of the hunters’ arsenal is anything to go by. The rest of their arsenal is _impressive_.

…One of them is going to die.

“I could just pick it up and empty it into your chest,” Stiles grits, gaze flitting from Derek to the hunter. But his eyes are on the assault rifle in the man’s hand. The man shrugs, clearly unconcerned.

“One in six chance you’ll get me before I get you. Best odds of the night. Wouldn’t you rather save that for you or your freak boyfriend?”

“He’s _not_ my—“

But the hunter isn’t listening. The door opens and the two men that had helped snatch them back in town enter, and Stiles can’t help feeling like they’d missed their only chance. Their _only chance_.

One of them is going to die.

The gun slows to a stop, barrel hovering uncertainly between them.

.-

_“The rules to the game are simple. One bullet, six chances. You pick it up and take turns pulling the trigger on the other man, or we gun you both down right now. You play along, only one of you has to die. Fun game, huh?”_

.-

“There are always options. _Derek_ , tell me there are options.”

Three hunters, spaced out across the room, armed with rapidfire, high-powered weapons. One potential bullet on their side, and a vulnerable human in the crossfire.

“The option is you shoot me.”

Stiles breath rattles out, sharp and angry.

“Or you shoot me.”

Derek’s gaze falls away.

.-

Stiles is staring at Derek, taking in the lines and shadows of his face with unnerving focus. Derek looks down, eyes going across the chipped wooden tabletop to the gun.

“All the times I joked about shooting you in the face…”

Stiles’ voice rattles out too high, too thin. His palms are pressed-flat and white on the table, a sharp contrast to the dark wood. Derek’s own hand goes out, drifting along the uneven surface, and stops halfway between Stiles and the gun.

Stiles tracks the movement, a soft sound dragging from his throat.

And then…

“One in six, huh?”

His hands both move at once, the left one going out to grab Derek’s, squeezing tightly. The other has the gun a second later, cocking back the hammer, pressing the barrel to Derek’s forehead and squeezing the trigger.

It clicks out empty, and Stiles’ resolved expression lasts for about half a second before it crumples with a raw sob. He slumps in his chair, the gun slipping from his hand. His pale skin has broken out in a feverish sweat, and the air is sour with fear, disgust, relief.

“Fuck… thank… _god_ …”

Derek hadn’t had time to react. Hadn’t had time to so much as _think_ before he’d felt the cool metal against him. The world seems strangely distant in the aftermath, his eyes wavering along the lines of the dropped gun, going slowly up to Stiles’ face.

And Stiles is watching him, pale and wrecked, relieved and horrified.

“Sorry, I… just… best odds, I wanted…”

He’s scrabbling suddenly until Derek’s hand is grasped in both of his, not calming until Derek jolts into motion a few seconds late, squeezing back.

“You’re an idiot.” His own voice comes out rough. He’s not sure if his own words are meant for Stiles or himself. And then, more steadily: “You should shoot again.”

Stiles flinches, eyes wide and damp.

“ _No_. What the hell? That’s not how this goes.”

“They’re _hunters_ , Stiles. Of the two of us, who do you think they really want dead?”

Stiles winces a second before a warning bullet kicks up cement by Derek’s feet.

“How about you play by the rules, wolf? Or we shoot you both right now.”

The empty air feels too charged around him. Derek contemplates just letting it happen, just refusing, or turning to attack and letting the hunters’ bullets riddle him. But that will get Stiles killed too. If he plays along, one of them might survive. If he plays along, Stiles has a chance.

Or he’ll be killing Stiles with his own hands.

Stiles is folding the gun into his hand, eyes steady even as his hands shake.

“Derek, it’s ok.”

It’s not ok. It’s not vaguely.

It just gets worse when Stiles pulls his hand gently upward and brushes his lips along Derek’s knuckles. The touch comes and goes like a riptide, tearing Derek from his fragile illusion of control. Stiles’ eyes tug him in. Stiles’ eyes… one way or another he won’t be seeing them much longer.

“I can’t.”

Stiles’ attention flits to the hunters. His lips tremble, press together.

“Would you rather I do it to myself? ‘Cause I have a feeling they won’t like us not playing along, so if you don’t I will. I’ll empty the whole barrel into my skull, Derek. And then what’ll they do?”

Derek’s grip on the gun tightens as Stiles tries to pull it back, teeth baring, a warning growl dragging from his throat. Stiles smiles, wet and wavering and so goddamn _brave_.

“There you are, sourwolf. Ok. Ok, do it, ok? Just… don’t draw it out ‘cause I’m already freaking the hell—“

Derek’s surging across the table and slamming their lips together before either of them can think about it. Stiles whimpers, riding the adrenaline high into a frantic slide of lips and tongues and _last chance_. _Last chance ever._ Derek savors the slide of skin and the bump of crashing teeth, the taste and scent of Stiles so close, closer than he’d ever realized he wanted. But he _wants_ , wants so badly and he’d been enough of a stubborn, blind idiot to never realize it until he knew he’d never have it.

He waits until he can tell Stiles is lost deep in the motions, some of the tension loosening out of his shoulders and little, hungry sounds dragging up his throat, before he cocks the gun, puts it to Stiles’ temple, and pulls the trigger.

Stiles jolts back, breaths shuddering out loud and eyes squeezed so tightly shut. Derek’s finger goes to brush his cheek and Stiles flinches.

“I’m sorry, I just…”

“Yeah, I get it.” Stiles’ eyes open but they stay fixed on the table. “That was good. Good distraction technique.”

Derek slides back into his chair, the gun heavy in his hand.

“It wasn’t just a distraction.”

Stiles’ eyes do come up at that. They hold Derek’s for too long, filled with too many emotions, before he murmurs “Good goodbye then.”

There’s a disgusted snort from somewhere behind Derek, and Stiles’ eyes flit, charged and _furious_ , to its source.

“You’re all insane, by the way. Just so you know. Is this really how you get your kicks? Got bored killing people the usual way so you… what, started coming up with ways to force them to kill each other?”

Derek doesn’t see the hunters’ faces, can’t take his eyes off Stiles for a second. But he hears the laughter in the answering voice.

“Just playing by the rules, kid. Want a wolf dead around Beacon Hills, gotta make sure he’s breaking the code first. All official like. It’s a real bitch to go following them around though, waiting for them to show their true nature. We’re just being a little proactive about it.”

Derek’s hand feels wrong on the clammy metal of the gun, his claws itching to come surging out.

Stiles is openly gaping at the hunters.

“Fuck, I was right. _Completely_ insane. Forcing us to kill each other won’t make you any less guilty in the eyes of any sane hunter. This is a _clear_ violation of the code. Argent’s not gonna let this go.”

“Argent’s gone soft, sure. But he won’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to the facts. Either you shoot your wolf pal and our problem’s been solved by an outsider, or he shoots you and we get free rein to do what needs doing.”

The gun finally falls from Derek’s hand.

“Then let him shoot me. _Just_ shoot me. The human solves your problem and lives.”

Stiles’ hand is on Derek’s again, gripping hard, expression screwing up angrily. The man to Derek’s left snorts.

“Right, let’s go easy on the sympathizer. He’s lucky we’re giving him fifty-fifty odds.”

By their own twisted code, Stiles and Derek are safe until one of them has killed the other. But he knows they won’t get off that easily. They’ve already seen they can’t leave, that they can be held against their will. Derek’s still healing from a bullet he’d taken in the shoulder when they’d been attacked, and Stiles’ pale skin is probably bruising dark under his clothes from the punches he’d taken.

Maybe they’re not willing to kill, but Derek has no doubt they’re willing to beat, abuse, torture.

"It’s your turn," he breathes. Stiles hand shakes as it goes for the gun. Derek steadies his breathing, tries to prepare for it this time. “It’s ok, Stiles. We both know I’m not getting out of here. I hope it’s me.”

“ _Shut up._ ”

"No." He needs Stiles to know this. He needs him to understand. He needs to know that Stiles isn’t going to be left behind, wallowing in guilt over things that aren’t his fault. "I hope it’s me, I hope you survive. I’m not getting out of this; you can. It might be your finger pulling the trigger but this isn’t, in any way, your fault."

Stiles is drinking in his words, gasping back sobs, loud and wet through clenched teeth. He cocks the gun, head tilting, fast and wet and pleading, with all the things he can’t say.

He pulls the trigger and Derek hates the quiet click that follows.

Stiles doesn’t collapse this time, just squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment, mouth gaping soundlessly. Derek can’t decipher the expression, can’t do anything but track the line of a fat tear rolling down Stiles’ cheek.

The gun passes to him.

Stiles drags his hand up, kissing his knuckles around the silver handle, and then lets go, steadying himself. He sits still and strong despite the terror screaming through his scent.

The gun feels so _wrong_ in Derek’s hand, and he aches to spin in his chair and use the weapon of the hunters against them. Shoot one of them, hopefully. Hopefully Stiles would know to duck for cover. Hopefully he’d be able to at least wound his captors before he was taken down.

But Stiles has a one-in-three chance right now. He’ll have none if Derek decides to fight back. So he lifts the gun, cocks it, and pulls the trigger.

Stiles flinches, full bodied, at the sound of the soft click, his expression flashing from relief to agony in an instant. And the gun goes back to Stiles.

Stiles stares down at it for a long moment before his eyes go back up to Derek. They’re too wide, too soft. Derek has never seen him look so young.

“Fifty-fifty,” he breathes. One shot left for each of them.

If he survives the next attempt, Derek will attack the hunters. No matter how hopeless it might be, it’ll be better than firing at Stiles knowing the bullet’s waiting for him.

Going down in a fury of gunfire or a bullet to the forehead. These are his options now.

Stiles lifts the gun and says “I might be in love with you.”

Derek can’t answer, can’t find any words, and Stiles cocks the gun.

Derek _hears_ the bullet chamber. It’s a different kind of sound, more solid than the hollow clicks of the first four tries.

He feels something in his chest loosen. The hunters won’t have the satisfaction of killing him themselves. Stiles won’t have to die. His lips twitch in a faint smile.

"You too."

Stiles’ eyes soften, searching the planes and angles of Derek’s face. He draws Derek’s knuckles to his lips with his free hand, and breathes three simple words, just soft enough for a wolf to hear.

And then he pulls the trigger.

.-

_“Trust me, Derek.”_

.-

Derek slumps slowly, sliding from his chair and hitting the ground in a heap.

Stiles collapses against the table, just as limp, just as listless, the only difference between them being the raw sobs dragging up Stiles’ throat.

The hunters hoot and cheer, congratulating each other on a hunt well played. Two of them make their way to Derek, kicking at his lifeless form, while the other shuffles around the table to grab Stiles by the nape, hoisting him up.

“Lucky day, kid.”

Stiles lets himself be dragged upward, empty gun loose in his grip, his eyes going to where Derek lies face down in the cement. One of the hunters is leaning down to grab him, haul him upward. They’re talking about taking pictures, promoting their kill to other hunters. They’re turning, laughing at each other, when Derek bursts into motion, sharp claws tearing at the man’s throat.

Stiles is moving the second he sees Derek twitch, head slamming backward to catch the hunter in the nose, twisting out of his grip and slamming the butt of the gun over and over again into his temple.

When he finally feels the man go still he twists the assault rifle out of his limp hands and spins back toward the fray…

And finds himself aiming a gun at a bloody, clawed and fang-toothed Derek, standing over the corpses of two hunters.

The gun falls from his suddenly shaking hands and then Derek is hugging him, his claws retreating, hands sliding up Stiles’ sides, his nape, his cheeks, like _he_ was the one that had just fake gotten shot.

Stiles’ breaths are shuddering out against his neck. He’s honestly not sure if he’s laughing or sobbing.

“You looked, I _knew_ , but you looked… _god._ Good acting, Derek. Glad you got my message.”

“Firing about a centimeter above my head, lifting your hand like it was a recoil. Pretty clear sign.” But Derek’s shaking too, sounds pleased as he clutches Stiles close. “That was smart.”

“Better than all the ‘let him shoot me, shoot me’ crap you were pulling.” Stiles pulls back far enough to punch Derek’s shoulder, hard. His fist probably feels it more than Derek’s arm. “No more martyr-Derek, ok? If we’re dating now, that’s rule one.”

Derek eyes him quietly, blood spattered across his cheeks, blue sparking in his eyes.

“Are we dating now?”

“Well, duh, dude. We’ve been in how many near death situations? And how many people do you randomly make out with during them?” He doesn’t mention the panic-induced love confessions. It’s way too soon for those. But Derek’s eyes go soft and fond, Stiles thinks maybe he’s remembering them anyway.

Stiles’ thumb trails slowly across Derek’s forehead where the silver of the pistol had rested too many times tonight.

“You and me together, Wolfman. We’ll always find another way.”


	2. Chapter 2

I've decided to separate the recovery portion into its own fic, which you can find in the second part of this series. I'm keeping this chapter up so I don't lose all of your lovely comments. <3

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


End file.
